The Finder
by boys and girls look to the sky
Summary: "You know what they do to women spies in Berlin? They execute them. With a guillotine." "Mm. How original." Amelia Blattson, a cynical American journalist in Europe during WWII, never believed she had ideals worth dying for. To her, the rest of the world can go to Hell. Until one day it does. [Historically-accurate, OC-centric. Slow-building, feat. Prussia, France, other nations.]
1. Prologue

_"For we all desire the same thing. We desire before all to lift from the shoulders of humanity the frightful weight which is pressing on them, so that humanity, released from this weight, may at last return joyfully to work."_

_- Woodrow Wilson's Opening Address at the Paris Peace Conference, 18 January, 1919_

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><p><strong><em>28 June 1919<br>The Palace of Versailles_**

He wonders if perhaps there is a sort of poetic justice in it all.

Francis remembers this room, golden strands of left behind summers floating through the air, weaving themselves into his peripheral vision. Things that do not belong in this day and age, the ladies with their silken skirts and gentlemen with their fine powdered wigs dance in the spaces he cannot see, disappearing every time he turns his head.

_Nations,_ he muses silently, only half-listening to the proceedings before him, _must be careful when discerning the past from the present._ It is too easy to get caught up in the feelings and sentiments of a world long gone. Too tempting, too indulgent, all too dangerous.

(Somewhere in the corner vestiges of this room, Marie-Antoinette gives him a red wine-stained smile that he cannot return.)

So he reluctantly drags his attention back to the table before him. Glances over at Britain, his posture ramrod straight in his high-backed chair as only someone with centuries of aristocracy and nobility could be. Perhaps France looks the same; it would not surprise him, despite having given up such frivolities long ago. They are the righteous princes, they are the God of Moses, angry and unforgiving with the power to annihilate, take and destroy everything until there is nothing left.

France wants to. Oh, how he wants to. He can feel the hatred bubbling up under his skin, coloring his world (_this_ world, this world that someone soaked in kerosene and lit aflame, with castles built of bone and skin surrounded by blood-filled trenches instead of moats), he has not felt this since, since…

Francis remembers this room. He stood at the windows, watched the rain trickle down the glass, as scores of women stood in the courtyard. Of course someone had to die. He remembers their bloodlust, their screaming for bread, for liberty, for justice...

(He watches her hair drift to the floor, the barely perceptible _snip _of a life falling away. She laughs at him, tilts her head, bares her pretty little white neck.)

And America clears his throat ("_the savior_," he remembers Clemenceau mocking, this young nation who thinks himself so grand, Wilson and his Fourteen fucking Points), America stands up and speaks, his French horribly accented, but much better than that throaty garbled language Britain calls his own.

"Since we've finished covering the penalties outlined in Articles 227 through 230, does anyone have any questions?"

He is met only with silence.

Francis can hear the humans speaking in the Hall of Mirrors, the murmurs of the crowd gathered within and the flashbulbs of the camera, but it is faintly muted as if far away. The five of them sit in the War Salon instead, hidden away from the public eye. It is more waiting than anything, though Nations know the stirring of sentiments in their blood, know which way the wind blows. They could not influence it if they tried.

"All right. Onto the next article. _'The Allied and Associated Governments affirm and Germany accepts the responsibility of Germany and his allies for causing all the loss and damage to which the Allied and Associated Governments and their nationals have been subjected as a consequence of the war imposed upon them by the aggression of Germany and his allies…'_"

France rejoices. France remembers 1871. He hated Bismarck with every fiber of his being.

(Francis makes eye contact with Gilbert from across the table. He looks away. He can still feel the German's stare burning into his skin long after Alfred has finished talking.)

"Are there any objections?"

"Perhaps we should get to the point," Britain interrupts sharply, drawing his eyebrows together in a frown and crossing his arms over his chest. "The Italian delegation has long since run off, and there is nothing else of note to discuss. I move that we end this discussion and proceed to the signing -"

"Yeah, I've got an objection."

_...oh._

Francis snaps his attention back to the table in front of him, mentally scolding himself for letting his mind wander. There are no ghosts here. Just piles of paper stacked neatly, waiting to be signed, like the one Alfred holds so stiffly in his hands right now. There is silence and the taste of their own stale breaths, waiting, waiting. Arthur's face deepens into a scowl. This was not in the plan.

Most interestingly of all, though, are the two men sitting directly across from them, hands clenched into fists under the table.

(No. Not two men. One boy, not even a century old yet, who sits and lives and breathes with the textbook art of a soldier. Whose eyes are young, were so young, so terrified at Austerlitz and so terrified now, waiting for the judgement and destruction France so desperately wants to give him and oh _Allemagne why did you have to be born..._)

But it is not Germany who speaks, and Prussia has never been one to mince words.

"This is bullshit."

(Not two men. One boy and one idea, not even really a nation. Who led armies of brave men and waved black and white banners and shouted songs from hilltops, who stood on the edge of the world and laughed.

_Were you ever really a man at all, Gilbert?)_

Francis doesn't even realize he's speaking until he hears the brittle tone of his own voice.

"Eloquent as always, I see, _Prusse_," He tilts his head, forces a polite and perhaps slightly mocking smile. "But I'm afraid you shall have to elaborate a bit more on what you find so disagreeable with this treaty."

"I protest," Arthur cuts in before Gilbert can open his mouth again. The line of his jaw is clenched firmly in a way that Francis knows only too well. "The terms are non-negotiable. As the surrendered party, Germany was to have no input whatsoever. The fact that _they_ are even in here at all, listening to us go over it, is ridiculous!"

He is not Arthur. Not right now. Not the cool, calculated gentleman, but the furious Nation, the _Empire_ he is supposed to be. Centuries have allowed Francis the luxury of learning to tell the difference. He sees it in the anger that lurks just beneath the Englishman's emerald eyes, the way he spits out every word directed towards the German brothers. He is Britain and he is thinking of 700,000 graves, of every grieving widow and child that goes with each one. He is seeing not the beauty of Versailles but the horror of Gallipoli and he breathes not air but mustard gas, and Britain is furious, still so furious and he is terrifying and he wants, _he wants..._

(He wants what France wants, exactly the same thing. And Francis knows this because he is still right beside him in the trenches, and he feels slightly sick.)

"To the victor go the spoils," he murmurs, turning his gaze to rest on the young man still standing at the head of the table, quiet for once in the presence of such animosity. "A phrase coined by one of your senators, was it not,_Amérique_?"

America seems slightly startled at being addressed so suddenly, but he quickly squares his shoulder and lifts his head to meet the eyes of the other powers. "My boss argued for leniency," he says in a voice that carries and does not quiver. "Technically it was upon those terms that the Germans surrendered-"

"It does not matter what terms your boss discussed!" Britain snaps, smacking his palm against the table, right on top of one of the stacks of paper. "What matters is what is being discussed, here and now, and it is generally agreed that Germany must be punished for his actions, to prevent anything like this from ever happening again."

"Yeah, but is this all really necessary? Don't you think a League of Nations will be sufficient enough in preventing-"

"No. I don't think it shall."

There is a short silence after this. Arthur is still glaring daggers, shifting his gaze back from Alfred to the two brothers on the other side of the table. It may be Francis's imagination, but Ludwig seems to flinch when the Briton turns his angry stare towards him. So calm and collected on the battlefield, he remembers, like he had been firing bullets into warm bodies his entire life, now sitting scared of a few pieces of paper. The irony makes Francis almost choke on the soft laugh that rises up in his throat.

Gilbert is staring up at the ceiling now. The painted panels shine as brightly as they did the day Le Brun created them, France's enemies conquered one by one. Francis remembers 1871, this very same room, Gilbert staring up at the ceiling with that horrible grin and laughing, _hey, look at that, what would ya call that, irony?_ There is Spain's roaring lion and Holland's upside-down lion, and, say, look, there is the might German eagle kneeling in conquest and it was so very funny back then and now Gilbert is not laughing but his eyes flash with something like scorn when he looks back at Francis and Francis wishes that everyone would just take their fucking irony and poetic justice and just _choke on it..._

"That's what you can do with this," Gilbert says. "Take your goddamn 'treaty' and choke on it."

Arthur nearly rises from his chair, hands clenched into fists, and if looks could kill they would all still be at the Somme. "The mortals have already agreed to this. The war is over, there is no room for negotiations. Germany _will_ sign this, and that is the end of it."

"You would have Germany take on full responsibility for this war that _Austria_ started," - and that name is so very nearly a snarl, spat out like a dirty word and tossed out onto the table - "devastate his economy, leave him with _nothing_, not even a goddamn army to defend himself with. Just the blame and a mountain of debt to be paid to you, Francis, enlighten me as to how that's fucking _lenient!_"

Francis swears he can see the gleam of the those words as it they cut through the room like a sword, sharp and ringing in their wake. There is silence for a moment more, a pregnant pause during which Arthur has fully risen from his chair and Alfred's face has taken on an incredible crimson hue. Ludwig is burning a hole in the table with his gaze, his knuckles turning white underneath the table, Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he swallows tightly.

Francis drums his fingers on the table, looking everywhere but his (best?) friend, up at the baroque clock about to chime the hour, towards the door where he knows the delegates are waiting, out the window where crowds have gathered to hear the end of the war to end all wars. He avoids focusing in on the corners of the room where the shadows blur and he cannot distinguish between the past and present, where he swears he can see an Austrian princess dance in the dark places where the people cannot reach.

"Your new goverment, _mon cher ami_, what was it again?" he finds himself saying, as though the words are already there, written for him even though they cannot possibly express what he really wishes to say. "The new German Empire, _non_? And under that new regime, you are...what?"

The quiet is nearly deafening. He still cannot look Gilbert in the eyes when the other finally speaks.

_"Freistaat Preußen."_

"The Free State of Prussia," he repeats, the words tasting slightly sick on his tongue. "You are a state under a republic, and as such really have no business in international affairs such as this. You do not have the authority to speak for Germany any longer. I do not even know why you are in this room."

There is the sound of the chair scraping against the floor, and both Alfred and Arthur unconsciously reach for the nonexistent weapons by their sides, as the Free State of Prussia suddenly stands and slams his fist on the table.

"Say that to my face, you coward! Look at me and say that again, I dare you!"

(And, oh, that _anger_, so fierce and caustic and constant, whether it's on the fields of war wielding a sword or in a concert hall with fingers dancing across a long-forgotten flute...)

Slowly, deliberately, Francis turns his head to meet his gaze, this idea that is neither Nation nor man. The Prussian's eyes are burning, shining bright. Wet.

And France, he hates and hates and hates.

"_Bruder._"

The German Nation - child, he's just a _child - _speaks for the first time, his voice so much deeper than it should probably be, too mature for his age. His eyes betray his soldier's body, the callouses on his hands do not match the softness of a mouth that is unused to smiling. He is not smiling now. He is afraid.

"That's enough." Ludwig breathes in deeply through his nose, clasps his shaking hands together underneath the table. "My mortals have accepted the terms of this treaty, and so shall I."

"Are you _crazy_, Ludwig, don't you understand what this means - "

"I do. I understand, Gilbert," and his voice cracks just ever so slightly on his brother's name, those blue eyes closing for one moment as if in pain. "America explained it - France will have his reparations, the Rhineland will be demilitarized, I will lose Alsace-Lorraine, and...Silesia and Western Prussia shall be ceded to Poland."

Gilbert flinches ever so slightly, as though those words are blows, like they're bullets. But as soon as the moment occurs, it passes, and he steels himself again for the next barrage, like the good soldier he's supposed to be.

"I appreciate your concern, _Bruder_, but it's over. Our people need this to be over. We need to move on." Ludwig doesn't say what everyone is thinking, but it's there all the same.

"Finally, someone with some sense," Arthur murmurs, sauntering forward with a fountain pen in his grasp. "From the Jerry, no less...but once again, I move that we end this discussion and proceed to the signing. Does anyone second?"

He expects Francis to second it, of course, but instead Francis lets his mind idle for a moment longer and watches a muscle in Gilbert's jaw twitch, as he clenches his fists and squares his shoulders in that familiar way.

"I..." He catches Ludwig's furtive glance, that slight shake of his head, and it's as though the fight suddenly leaves his body. Suddenly, Francis realizes just how old his friend seems. "I second the motion," he finally says, forcing the words out through his teeth.

"It has been moved and seconded," If America realizes the slight erratum in procedure, he doesn't point it out. "Let's get to it, then."

The next few minutes happen in a blur - Francis watches the ink bleed into the paper, the looping swirls of his name, _La Troisième République française; _Arthur's gentle cursive_, The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland (Dieu, _what a mouthful); Alfred's broad scrawl, _The United States of America; _and then, finally, the pen makes it's way into Ludwig's hands.

"Wait."

A hand on his shoulder, Ludwig does not say a word, but instead gently presses the pen into his brother's grasp. The boy-nation lifts eyes to meet the gaze of anyone who might object as Gilbert adds his own signature to this document of humiliation. No one does.

(This diplomacy might just be worse than the war. This is France's triumph, and Francis's misery.)

The handwriting is remarkably neat and tidy, almost a work of calligraphy with the wrong name: _Königreich Preußen. _Below that, Ludwig makes short work of his own: _Deutsches Reich._

The moment the pen is lifted from the paper in finality, there is the tumultuous sound of applause, the barrage of a gun salute just outside the palace. The cheering of a crowd drifting in through an open window, suddenly Versailles is alive again and Francis watches the shades of the air shimmer as perhaps the tiniest bit of his heart rejoices.

France is celebrating.

And it is Britain who grins now, clasping America's hand in a firm shake, nodding his head in France's direction, saying, "It's finished. The war is over."

The war is over.

(Later, he'll come back the Hall of Mirrors, emptied of all humans and Nations. All that is left are a few scattered pens left by reporters. A discarded slip of paper here and there.

A state that doesn't belong to this world doesn't look at him, instead still staring out the windows at the dark estate, as though waiting for the sun to rise again and fill the room with light.

"You never wanted him to be born," he says. "You think it's some sort of...poetic justice, you're punishing him because you're angry that he even came to be. You're afraid of his power, even now, that's why you're trying so hard to destroy him. You're scared."

Fear. Francis certainly knows what fear looks like. He's tasted fear first-hand.

So instead of denying what his friend says - because they are friends, aren't they, even though their histories might say otherwise, even if there is a part of him that wants to wrap his fingers around Gilbert's pale throat and shake him fiercely for all his cruelty and laughter in ages past -, instead of telling him that's not the case, Francis lets out a breath he has been holding for far too long, and asks in return, "Aren't you?")

The war is over. The crowds roar until their voices are hoarse.

He tries to ignore the distant sound of a blade falling, and the silence that always follows.

* * *

><p><em>"There was a final hush. 'La séance est levée,' rasped Clemenceau. Not a word more or less.<em>  
><em>We kept our seats while the Germans were conducted like prisoners from the dock, their eyes still fixed upon some distant point of the horizon."<em>

_- Sir Harold Nicolson's observations on the signing of the Treaty of Versailles_

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><p><span><strong><em>.:to be continued:.<em>**

* * *

><p><strong>HistoricalAuthor's Notes:**

**- The Treaty of Versailles was signed June 28, 1919, in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, and officially ended World War I. The terms of the Treaty were decided by the "Big Four", which was comprised of America, Britain, France, and Italy (the new Soviet Union was left out of the peace talks due to the fact that they had pulled out of the war during the Bolshevik Revolution). The Central Powers were allowed not allowed to be present at the conferences until the signing, so they had no input whatsoever. Interestingly enough, the treaty was signed exactly five years after the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, whose death had sparked the beginning of the Great War. Pretty neat, huh?**

**- The best description of these peace conferences I ever found was on where it detailed how "[t]he political wrangling became intense. At one point [Woodrow] Wilson had to step between Lloyd George and [Georges] Clemenceau to prevent a fist fight. At another time Wilson threatened to leave the conference. [Vittorio] Orlando did leave for a time". **

**- Basically, America (the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES FOR CHRIST'S SAKE) literally had to step between England and France to prevent a fistfight and Italy bailed. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.**

**- The first 26 articles of the Versailles Treaty outlined the League of Nations (Wilson's idea, kind of a precursor to the United Nations and part of his Fourteen Points proposing peace to the Germans on lenient terms of surrender - many of the other European powers saw Wilson as naive and ignored the points, the French delegate Clemenceau in particular exclaiming something along the lines of, "Fourteen! The good Lord himself only had ten!" or something like that). The rest of the 440 articles outlined the punishments of the Central Powers.**

**- Article 231 was particularly tricky. Known as the War Guilt Clause, it's commonly known as the article that placed full blame of the war on Germany (due to the unfortunate and later regrettable wording). In actuality, the clause was also included with minor changes in wording in other peace treaties signed by Germany's allies - if the same clause was applied more of less to the other Central Powers, why is it so strongly tied to the idea of German humiliation in the post-WWI negotiations? Article 231 was actually supposed to provide a legal basis for the reparations Germany was to pay to the Allied Powers. It served as kind of almost a "blank check"(haha, irony) for the billions of marks Germany was supposed to pay. In all honesty, the vehemence against the article by the Germans surprised the Allies, who mainly thought of the clause as a definition of German liability, nothing more. They didn't account for the national sentiment of the German people, who viewed it as humiliation in addition with their surrender.**

**- Along with the War Guilt Clause, Germany was to pay billions of marks in reparations to the Allies (mainly France, as a result of war damages), lost various territories such as the ever-disputed Alsace-Lorraine, Northern Schleswig, and West Prussia, Posen, and Upper Silesia (to Poland, which you can imagine probably would not have made Prussia very happy, considering he was part of the Polish Partition just a few centuries back). Germany's army was reduced to only 100,000 men and not allowed a navy or tanks. The industrial heartland, the Rhineland, was also occupied by Belgian and French forces, further crippling German economy. Finally, Germany was not allowed to unite with Austria. These stipulations would all be obviously ignored in about twenty years or so.**

**- France held a particular vehemence towards Germany. Hate probably wouldn't be too strong of a word here, actually. It's no coincidence that many of the stipulations of Versailles were parallels of the Treaty of Versailles of 1871 that ended the Franco-Prussian War (relinquishment of Alsace-Lorraine, enormous reparations to the winning power, national humiliation). French and German relations sucked, to be frank, partly due to the ferocity of the German army as it invaded France, as well as centuries of French and Prussian animosity (Napoleon, Bismarck, ect. I love the idea of the BTT, I really do, but its a wonder that Gilbert and Francis aren't actually mortal enemies). Personally, I think the only thing stopping the French delegates from suggesting total destruction of the German state was the rising threat of Communism in the east and the desire for a buffer state if worst came to worst.**

**- After the abdication of the German Kaiser Wilhelm II, a new German government took the place of the monarchy. Though known by historians by the Weimar Republic, it was in it's time simply known as the German Reich. The thing that's really fascinating about changes in government and Hetalia is that it completely reconfigures how you're supposed to regard the nations. Prior to WWI, Prussia was technically a kingdom under the German Empire, therefore still something equivalent to a nation. Like Scotland under the United Kingdom, sort of. Under the Weimar Republic, though, it became the Free State of Prussia, giving it's power of about the equivalent of New Jersey in America. And I really don't think that America would be taking New Jersey to World Meetings. **

**- However, with Gilbert being the equivalent of an older brother/mentor to Ludwig, I'd like to think that his position, even as a state, would still be a bit higher than his Nation status gives him. He would still have an enormous (if declining) influence. My personal headcanon is that up to now, he's been acting in sort of an advisory capacity for Ludwig as the young German nation, therefore it wouldn't be quite that far of a stretch to have him present in international affairs. Francis pointing out his status was kind of a dick move, yeah, but it also serves as a signal for the beginning of the end. From here on out, it's not going to be good for Prussia.**

**- The back and forth between the use of human and Nation names was done on purpose, if done rather badly. It was supposed to show a disparity between the sentiments of a nation and the sentiments of the human, particularly in Francis, who has to deal with his friendship with Gilbert as well as the want and need for revenge as a nation. Please don't judge me too harshly on this, I tried something and it didn't quite work out. Ugh.**

**- This is an introduction to Part 1 of a series I have planned. The Finder deals primarily with Amelia Blattson and the former Nation of Prussia. While it does rely heavily on an OC, it is _not_ meant to be a romantically-oriented story. I have taken care to try and make it as historically-accurate as possible, as well as make Amelia as realistic a character as possible. This is meant to be a slow-building, thoughtful story that I hope will not come off as too cliche. If anyone has any questions or doubts, please feel free to PM me about them! **

**- Thank you for reading! If there are any grammatical errors or historical inaccuracies, please please please let me know! History is an intense passion of mine, and I love anything I might learn or discover and sharing that with other people. (thank you to matthewavaughan1998 for catching my mistake about Britain's name).**

**Mischief Managed!**


	2. Chapter 1

_"I want to take __a ship and go  
><em>_Abroad, but where__I do not know:  
><em>_It isn't Paris, London, Rome  
><em>_Nagasaki, Naples, Nome  
><em>_Honolulu, Teheran,  
><em>_Servia or Afghanistan;  
><em>_And yet I want to take a ship  
><em>_And give the place I'm in the slip -  
><em>_Lord, tell me where I want to go;  
><em>_Give a man a decent show!"_

_- Samuel Hoffenstein, "Poems in Praise of Practically Nothing"_

* * *

><p>There's this book bound in baby blue, and it's tucked under the bed between a two-dollar mystery novel and a dusty teddy bear. She keeps it hidden like a secret, like a stolen treasure, because really that's what it is, a treasure slipped into her pocket one cold Chicago day, held tightly in her lap on the train ride home.<p>

There's this book bound in baby blue, and sometimes when her sisters are sleeping she'll crawl out of bed and crouch by the tiny window waiting for the first few drops of sunlight to shine through and dance on the pages. She mouths the words, one by one, testing their shapes on her lips, tasting them on her tongue. Even if some of them are difficult to understand, she likes the way they sound, warm like a song, almost.

There's this book bound in baby blue written by a Jew, and it's her own personal Bible. But she's not a disciple, she refuses to tell a soul.

She wants to think that she could be a book bound in baby blue, someday, because right now she knows of life is of an empty page. She is a dancer on a dark stage waiting for the curtain to rise and the lights to turn on, and she closes her eyes and she is beautiful and wise and has seen many things, and she wishes, wishes, _wishes..._

(In the end though, it's all the same. A rooster crows. Her sisters stir. Amelia opens her eyes and snaps the book shut, sixteen and ordinary again, and hungry for something she has yet to taste.)

* * *

><p><strong>- The Finder -<strong>

**Chapter 1**

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><p><em><strong>29 March 1934<br>**__**Waydale, Oklahoma  
><strong>__**6:59 Central Standard Time**_

"Hurry up, Jodi, we're going to miss it!"

"Keep your hair on, I'm trying."

"Turn it up a bit, I can't hear."

"Shh, you gotta be quiet, else my Ma'll hear you."

"Turn it up anyway, it's not like she doesn't know what we do up here anyway, and I wanna dance."

"Pipe down, both of ya, I can't hear myself think!"

It's a warm night for spring. The floor of the attic is filthy. Amelia sighs in something like contentment and draws squiggly patterns in the dust, tic-tac-toes and smiley faces. Roxanne sits perched on the arm of the old upholstered chair behind her, while Jodi fiddles with the wireless dials, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration, waiting for the moment when static turns into something comprehensible.

"Oh, what if we missed it?"

"Don't be in such a tizzy, Roxie, it's not like it's going anywhere for the next hour or so."

Roxanne just grins, twisting a strand of wheat-colored hair around her finger. "You never know, Mia, something could've happened. Then how would you be able to go to confession tomorrow without being able to admit to your usual sins?"

"You're forgetting, jazz and liquor ain't a sin anymore. And if all the angels are playing in Heaven is harp music, I think I'd rather go to Hell."

"Got it!" Jodi interrupts happily, pulling her hands away from the set just as the room is suddenly filled with lively intro music. Her two best friends cease their bickering for a moment to listen to the gentle crooning of a man's voice through the radio.

_"...everybody, this is Rudy Vallée and company. We've got a marvelous show for you tonight, what with our wonderful returning guests, Bebe Daniels and Ben Lyon, the world's most perfect couple performing a comedy sketch about domestic strife, as well as..."_

"Gosh," Jodi sighs dreamily, stepping across the room to sit on top of an old worn travel trunk, resting her forearms on her knees and smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt.. "Rudy's voice is about the closest to Heaven I think anyone can get."

Roxanne laughs. "You and me both, kid, but face it, this is the closest _we're_ ever gonna get. So enjoy it."

Amelia lets an easy grin slide across her face, lifting her head to look over at her best friends, a sweet and easily remembered tune warm in her throat. "Oh, oh, _if you were the only girl in the world, and I were the only boy, nothing else would matter in the world today, we could go on loving in the same old way..."_

The giggles that erupt from Roxanne momentarily drown out the radio, whilst Jodi sputters incomprehensibly, her face a marvelous shade of red.

"I - you - shut up, Mia!"

"Oh, come on Jodi, imagine if Rudy sang that to you, wouldn't you just _die_?"

The only response is an old baseball thrown in the direction of her head, and though Amelia mock-gasps and falls forward dramatically, she cannot help but continue to grin, propping herself up on her elbows and glancing back at the wooden wireless case.

"But really though, if you could just get to New York City, you could get to Rudy, wouldn't you?" She rolls over onto her back, lacing her fingers together over her stomach and staring up at the rafters. "That's where it's all at, you know. New York City."

"Where what's at?"

"Everything. Now shh, I wanna hear."

_"Tonight, we'll begin with one of my personal favorites, the ever-talented Mr. Armstrong. He performed this song in Copenhagen last year, and I sure hope he's having a grand time across the Atlantic, and comes back soon, we all miss him here, don't we, boys? But while we wait, here's Louis and his trumpet with 'I Cover the Waterfront'."_

The light melody of an easy jazz number and Louis Armstrong's gravelly yet rich tones fills the room, takes them from Oklahoma to Copenhagen, transforms their worn-out Mary Janes into dancing shoes. Amelia lets her eyes flutter shut for a moment, her head swaying back and forth as the music seems to crawl it's way towards her, settling somewhere inside her, a secret place that makes her chest ache. It's as though the music has fingers with which it reaches out and gently brushes against her soul.

It's like the music burns and heals her, both at the same time.

"That Mr. Armstrong's really something, huh?"

"And how!" Amelia sits up a bit to respond to Jodi. "I don't even care that he's a Negro, I'd listen to him play all day if I could!"

"No one's questioning that, Mia, trust me." Her friend holds up her hands in mock-surrender as the song ends to muffled canned applause, a hesitant smile playing at her lips. "We're not your folks, you don't gotta defend yourself to us."

She scoffs. "I know that."

_I know that. I know. _Yet sometimes she gets so tired and so used of fighting and defending herself that sometimes she doesn't know how to turn it off.

(_"Pa, listen to me, _please_, you don't understand - "_  
><em>"It's for your own good, Mia, you'll see that. You're just in the wrong frame of mind, that's all, and we love you and want you to get better."<em>  
><em>"But I'm <em>not_ sick, can't you see that?"_)

Careless people, the whole lot of them.

She sits up a little straighter as a new song begins, this one much faster, one that gets her blood pumping and her heart singing. It floats through the air, the trumpets and saxophones blaring, brassy and hot and wild.

Amelia pushes herself up to stand, stumbling a bit on her uncertain feet for a moment. It's a new tune, one that she doesn't recognize, and harder to sing along to, but she doesn't care. Once she catches the beat, she's gone.

Jodi and Roxanne watch and laugh and clap along as she kicks her feet forward and back, swinging her arms from side to side in time to the music. It's an easy enough step, one that she's practiced for a long time until it's become almost second nature, _and a-one, two, three four, one, two, three four..._

"Come on!" She pulls Roxanne by the hand off of her armchair, bouncing up and down on the toes of her feet in excitement. "Charleston, okay, ready, two three..."

Out of the three of them, Roxanne is definitely the best at cutting the rug, and she catches on to the beat quickly. Clasping their hands palm to palm in front of each other, they kick their feet back and forth, hearts pounding in perfect time, Jodi's laughter a welcome background track to the jazz getting louder and louder as the song reaches its climax.

Impulsively, Amelia lets go of Roxanne's hand and spins her out. Her friend takes center stage, holding her arms out at her sides before twisting and kicking out in a series of wild steps that make her friends' jaws drop. It's crazy and improvised and looks like so much fun that it makes Amelia's heart jump.

"What the _hell _was that?" she asks breathlessly once the song comes to an end and Roxanne slows down, staggering around with quivering legs and a wide-eyed grin. "That was the zaniest thing I've ever seen!"

"It's called the Lindy," Roxanne sinks into the worn cushioned chair with a sigh, her feet still tapping along to the last few seconds of the beat. "Jacob Goldman told me its the hottest thing at the Savoy, right now."

"What would Jacob Goldman know about the Savoy, that boy ain't ever been anywhere farther than Little Rock."

"He swore up and down after church last Sunday that his Pa took him out on the railroad two months ago."

"Baloney, two months ago he was sick in bed with hay fever. You so much as breathe on that boy and he falls over, I swear."

The radio is momentarily forgotten as laughter colors the air, painting the room with warmth and light. They used to play up here as children, building forts and castles out of old furniture, constructing stories with old sheets and exploring all the worlds that could be contained in this tiny room. And now Amelia watches her friends, still children but dancing somewhere on the edge of adulthood, and she thinks to herself, _here are the people I love the best._

Oh.

_("It won't be forever, dear, just til you're...well..."  
>"Til I'm married to some nice man with a nice house filled with nice children, is that right? I won't."<br>"Now, listen here -"  
>"You can't send me away!")<em>

This room is still her entire world, right now.

"Mia? Amelia, are you all right?"

She blinks for a moment. Someone's hand is on her arm.

Roxanne's face is tanned from days of working in the sun, of flying in the sky high above her family's fields. Yet her blue eyes are so light, whether they're sparkling in wonderful mockery or heavy with concern, like right now, glancing up at her from the chair. "We lost you for a moment there, kid. You okay?"

"Huh? Oh. Mhm. I'm fine."

The radio has long since switched to its commercial breaks, something about the corrective properties of Fleishmann's Yeast. Jodi is still sitting on the old trunk, her long legs crossed daintily at the knees, long dark hair falling over her shoulders. There's something about the two of them, Roxanne with her carefully trained mind and soft kindness, Jodi with all her sharped edged beauty and endearing gracelessness. Amelia wants to commit the two of them to memory, sear them into her brain.

She shrugs off Roxanne's comforting hand and takes an uncertain step to towards the radio, in front of the two others. Her heart is pounding, her head is spinning. There's the taste of something bitter in her mouth.

Amelia grins and holds out her arms. "Fleischmann's Yeast Hour is proud to present, an all new sketch performed by the one and only, Amelia Blattson!" Pause for applause. There is none.

It doesn't matter. She almost wants to laugh.

"Time - last night. The scene - the living room of the Blattson family home, in Waydale, Oklahoma. The reigning matriarch of the family, Mrs. Blattson, presiding. A crisis has just broken out, even worse than the one befalling our dear President Roosevelt. She sits attentively at her post by the empty fireplace, going over the budget and expenses of last month and figuring out which child of hers requires the most maintenance. Suddenly, her eldest child, Amelia, sixteen and frightfully pretty, enters the scene."

She mimes sitting down by the radio, which is still buzzing with the slightly garbled advertisements that she subtly turns down to muffled noise. She can feel her friends' eyes on her, watching her every move, and therefore acts accordingly. Spine straight, not touching the back of the imaginary chair, squinting at a nonexistent piece of paper in her hand before looking up again.

Amelia can do her mother's voice in her sleep; soft, slightly husky, not used very often but possessing just the slightest twang in the vowels._ "Amelia, darling, come here please."_

She jumps up, running a hand through her wavy dark auburn hair to rumple it ever-so-slightly. Stands with her feet slightly apart, arms stiff at her sides, jaw clenched and eyes lowered. So different from the carefree dancing before, and she uses her own voice when she answers.

_"Yes?"_

She switches back into her mother's persona like slipping into a new jacket, like flipping on a switch. It's a game she's played for a long as she can remember, making up stories all by herself and acting them out in this tiny attic, recreating radio sketches. It's a game that used to leave her friends laughing themselves into stitches, begging her to do their favorite voices and favorite characters.

No one's laughing now.

Her mother carefully sets down the paper, narrowing her eyes at the imaginary girl in front of her. _"Your father and I have been talking. About what Pastor Frank told us last week."_

The daughter shifts her weight from one leg to the other, looking at the ground and almost spitting out her words. _"He's a liar."_

_"What you did after church that day was not right. It's a sin, Mia. You know that."_

_"So? It used to be a sin to drink, too, and we all know what Grandpaw puts in his Coca-Cola on Saturdays."_

_"Amelia!"_

She stands up again, letting that easy smile spread across her face once more. It's so easy, it's like being someone else for once. She's always liked being someone else.

This time she squares her shoulder, deepens her voice, places her hands on her hips as she mimics loud footsteps making their way in. Her father is endearingly late, as always._ "What's going on in here?"_

The mother: _"I was telling Amelia why she's going away for a while."_

The daughter: _"What?"_

The father: _"Oh. Well, what appears to be the problem?"_

The daughter: _"I won't!"_

The father: _"Now, listen here, young lady, you've put us in quite a predicament here. We don't really have a choice, do we? We want what's best for you, and if sending you to your mother's family means curing this...ailment of yours..."_

The daughter: _"Pa, listen to me, _please,_ you don't understand -"_

The father: "_"It's for your own good, Mia, you'll see that. You're just in the wrong frame of mind, that's all, and we love you and want you to get better."_

The daughter: "But_ I'm _not_ sick, can't you see that?"_

She doesn't have to look at her audience to know their expressions. Jodi and Roxanne cannot tear their eyes away from their friend, watching her play out this painful scene with almost twisted fascination. They know all too well the sudden strikes of madness that can come over her, know better than to intervene when she gets this way.

One final character enters the scene, footsteps heavy, clunky, slow. Dragging his feet and the sounds from his throat, the words thick with that German accent Amelia grew up hearing. Her grandfather threatens to steal the show when he announces his entrance. _"Was ist das?"_

The daughter appeals to the elder, the immigrant son who came to America in search of a better life. _"Grandpaw, please, I can't go. Not like that."_

He grunts. _"Why not?"_

_"It's not fair!"_

_"And what you did was neither fair nor right, was it?" _The anger and shame is ever-so-carefully concealed beneath the gruffness, but not well enough. _"What kind of example are you setting for your sisters, eh? Are we supposed to accept your mistake and do nothing to correct it? Your mother's cousin will be good to you. The old country will remind you of your roots and what is good, and besides. You've only been talking of leaving Waydale your entire life, richtig?"_

_"I made no mistake!" _The daughter, her eyes furious, hands shaking into fists. _"I'm not going to apologize for it! I won't!"_

_"Then you'll live with the shame for the rest of your life. I wash my hands of you."_

_"I never asked your hands or responsibility in the first place." _The daughter can barely speak, her voice beginning to choke off as angry tears fill her vision. Oh, dear, this isn't good, there's still a few more lines to go.

Her mother, who has been silent for a while, tries to break the tension, reaching out a hand to touch her daughter's elbow. "_It won't be forever, dear, just til you're...well..."_

_"Til I'm married to some nice man with a nice house filled with nice children, is that right? I won't."_

_"Now, listen here -" _The father, with a voice rumbling like thunder.

_"You can't send me away!" _And oh God, here are the tears, pouring like rain, drowning out her voice and leaving her unable to breathe. _"I won't go!"_

And for a moment, that's all there is. The quiet noise of a girl crying in a dusty attic, her friends frozen where they sit, not sure if they should comfort her or not. It is a minute more before she holds up one finger to pause and wipe her face with her sleeve, to look up once again.

Amelia arranges her face into her mother's passive, gently beautiful one. _"Yes. You will. Next week."_

The play is over.

Suddenly, she finds she cannot stand.

When she slowly sinks to the floor, crossing her legs Indian-style and taking deep, shaky breaths, that's when Jodi and Roxanne jump out of their seats and rush to her. They don't say a word, just envelop her in their arms and smooth her hair as though she's a mirror about to shatter to pieces any second.

It isn't until sometime later that she lets out a hollow, brittle laugh.

"Oh. It's really funny, isn't it girls? Grandpaw was right. I have wanted to leave my entire life, I really have. It's just..."

Her lip quivers ever so slightly, and Roxanne murmurs, "It's okay. It's gonna be okay, Mia."

"It's just I thought I would get to choose it. Not like this."

Never like this.

She cries then. And her friends hold her, for a long time, until her tears dry, and then for a long time after.

* * *

><p>Amelia boards a train the next week. It'll take her to New York, you know, where everything's at, including a plane across the Atlantic, and please don't cry Roxanne, I promise I'll write.<p>

How could her family afford it? Oh, Pastor Frank is a generous soul. A community collection to help this wayward lamb find her way, even in these hard times. Christ is always working His miracles.

What's this? This foreign chancellor? Nonsense. Newspapers sensationalize everything, and besides. In spite of her appearance, her mother's family is as Aryan as they come. There will surely be no problem.

The town sends their blessing, Mia, and promise you'll write. You'll be good, won't you? Go to church every Sunday. Meet a nice German boy, maybe. Anyone can be redeemed, remember that. Have faith.

She accepts their kisses and their blessings, clutching her valise between her hands til her knuckles turn white. When Roxanne and Jodi give their final good-byes, she does not want to let go.

But she does. Amelia sits in the window and watches as the platform slowly pulls away, her family becoming smaller and smaller. Soon her entire town, tiny as it is, disappears into the Oklahoma dust.

Just like she always dreamed.

The man sitting next to her wears a grey suit and opens his newspaper with a snap. The tracks rumble under their feet. Someone in the car laughs.

Amelia closes her eyes and imagines the oak tree just behind the church. The spring sun warm on her cheeks, reflecting off of the white paint. She can almost taste the honeysuckle and feel the sweetness of a kiss she doesn't think she'll ever get again.

* * *

><p><em>"...next week, another Fleischmann's Yeast Hour brings you another group of interesting people with something of interest to say and do. This is Rudy <em>_Vallée__ bidding you all good night."_

* * *

><p><em><strong><span>.:to be continued:.<span>**_

* * *

><p><strong>Hello! Happy New Year!<strong>

**I apologize for the wait, and the lack of any nations in this chapter. This is more of an introductory to Amelia's character, which I'm actually kinda excited to share, hahaha...**

**Not that much history this time, except for a few tidbits on American life during the Depression.**

**- Fleischmann's Yeast Hour was radio show sponsored by Fleischmann's Yeast every Thursday on NBC from 1929 to 1936. Hosted by Rudy Vallée, it was a variety show incorporating the era's most popular music, skits, and interviews. Rudy was what you might consider now to be a pop idol - women LOVED him. The best analogy I can think of is a 1930's Elvis. The crooning voice, the adoring female fans. Can you blame them though, I mean wow. There's a few clips of audio from the Yeast Hour floating around on the Internet if you know where to look.**

**- The Charleston and the Lindy were both popular dances of the age at the Savoy Ballroom in New York City. Both would eventually help develop the dance style known as swing, which will also be making its appearance in this fic. The Charleston is hella fun and really easy to do. The Lindy is very improv and also looks great, look it up online. **

**- Most people know who Louis Armstrong is, of course. His voice is...oh gosh. Like concrete on glass, but so appealing. I love it. And people didn't really seem to mind his skin color, which was great. Overall, he's THE jazz artist of the age, and he is amazing. Go listen to his cover of "I Cover the Waterfront" in Amsterdam, it's FABULOUS.**

**- By 1934, Prohibition was over in the United States, hence all the references to 'liquor no longer being a sin'. Waydale (a made-up town, by the way) is still, however, a highly religious community.**

**- Adolf Hitler did not become ****Führer until the death of President von Hindenberg. Therefore he's 'chancellor' here, and not considered too much of a threat even though by now the Enabling Act has been been passed and he's technically dictator. The New York Times described him as "having more power than a President ever will" or something. Terrifying stuff. Time Magazine even made him Person of the Year to try and raise awareness of the horrible things he was planning to implement. Problem is, America was so busy with it's own problems (Prohibition, Depression) that it didn't really pay attention. Even then, Amelia's family isn't all that worried about the political climate. They're too worried about their daughter.**

**- Samuel Hoffenstein. I found a book of his poetry by accident in Powell's bookstore one day. Best accident of my life. _Poems in Praise of Practically Nothing_ was published in 1928 (my edition was printed in 1947 though, but its still really old and cool!) and is seriously so witty and oh my gosh. Hoffenstein is a genius. He also wrote screenplays, so parts of movies like The Wizard of Oz can be attributed to him (no one's sure which lines, though which is a shame). His book will play a HUGE part in this fic.**

**- Amelia, Roxanne, and Jodi are all my creations. Hopefully, they'll each get their chance to shine. Amelia's story is this one, and I hope she's an interesting enough character with enough depth to seem real. I especially want to get her right. **

**- Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, or followed this story! It means a lot! :) the next chapter should be coming soon, and that's where the action will really begin. **

**Again, sorry for the wait. On a related note, part of my procrastination was because my friend introduced me to K-POP; namely, EXO, so if anyone happens to be a fan, feel free to PM me so we can cry about EXO together, haha! Just a warning, I have a habit to ramble about the perfection of Kim Jongdae's voice, soooo...**

**Anyway, happy 2015, and Mischief Managed!**


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